


Because It's Any Day Now

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because John isn't an idiot he sees things, hears things and sometimes cautiously deduces things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because It's Any Day Now

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Kink Meme, for this prompt: [Someone looking out for Mycroft](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117933599#t117933599)  
> Triggers for offscreen domestic abuse.

John Watson isn't as stupid or oblivious as certain Holmeses of his acquaintance like to think. ( _Thought_ , he corrects with a flinch because five months isn't nearly enough time to get the tenses right first time, not when Sherlock's violin still haunts him from the corner of the room.)

And because John isn't an _idiot_ he sees things, hears things and sometimes cautiously deduces things about the people around him, especially the ones he knows and cares about.

So the only excuse he has for not noticing this, for not figuring it out faster is that Sherlock jumps off of a building in front of him and months pass before he even remembers that other people exist.

(It was the knock of a prospecting milkman that did it, brought him back to the rest of the world one morning four months after, and no matter what else happens in his life now John is never buying milk from a supermarket again.)

But he crawls out of the mess he built for himself in 221B and back into the outside world and even though sometimes his eyes blink at the burn of it, at the colours where some part of him expects everything to be shades of grey, the living have to go on and it turns out that John Watson isn't dead yet.

Which is when John begins to notice things again. Little things like the smile Mrs Hudson has every Thursday afternoon when the phone rings and she ushers him out of her flat quickly. The way that his answer phone is full of messages from Lestrade and Harry and when he calls them both he receives the same relieved sort of sigh from them before they get down to fixing things. And then eventually, how there are no expensive black cars following him home from Tesco and the cameras in the street no longer move as he passes. 

At first he doesn't mind, it isn't like he enjoyed the very real Big Brother intrusion. And then he thinks about it some more, because thinking about other people means he isn't thinking about himself and how his hand is starting to shake again late at night. He thinks about it, and then goes out and starts a fight.

It's Friday night and the drunk tanks are filled to bursting with young and old, screaming and shouting and John Watson in his least favourite jumper, quiet and still on a bench and sober as he can be after one beer.

The cell opens, his name is called and they don't ask for bail and even though when he walks out onto the street there is still no black car waiting, John clocks the experiment up as a success and his tongue worries at the cut on his lip thoughtfully.

It would be simpler, if disappointing to learn he is simply no longer worth watching now that he has no Sherlock to protect. But he's ending the night with no charges and one injury even though he started the fight that closed down the bar and John isn't an idiot.

He bites his lip, curses when the cut opens back up, and heads for the underground. He doesn't look up at the cameras he passes, but the feeling of being watched isn't there and he starts to plan.

You see, John Watson isn't just a doctor or Sherlock Holmes's ex-blogger. He's also a soldier, and a bloody good one as it happens and just because he hasn't needed to be the planner in his more recent past, doesn't mean he can't do it and do it well. After all, he might not have won a war single handed, but there are medals in the box under his bed that say he led his men into battles and brought them back out again alive.

There's a certain delicious irony about what he does, reversing the surveillance and spying on the Government. It helps that he knows where Mycroft works, the club Mycroft goes to to relax and the warehouses John found himself frequenting most often. (It's the lack of kidnapping that niggles at the back of John's mind as he clears the kitchen table of his breakfast and lays out the map of London, the corners pinned with salt and pepper and two of Sherlock's beakers. Mycroft is having him watched, that much he has proven, but it's detached, impersonal and Mycroft hasn't shown himself in four months when before, John was getting used to seeing him at least once a week.)

He would be able to jump straight in if he knew where Mycroft lived, but he's never been to the other man's house and Sherlock never wrote addresses down and John doesn't even bother trying to find the older Holmes on any kind of list, he thinks that ex-directory is probably a lot more all encompassing for someone like Mycroft.

He thinks back and tries to remember the patterns he knows of Mycroft's movements, the times of his calls and the directions he's seen the man drive off in.

By the end of the day he has an incomplete but still pretty solid timeline of Mycroft's days, which he admits is making him feel a little stalkerish even at this early stage. He pushes the thought away because he is genuinely worried, and there is a slow burn of guilt in his gut that John isn't thinking about.

He follows Mycroft that night, on foot, running across rooftops and taking shortcuts he never would have known before Sherlock and when he stops, heart pounding and breaths short and sharp outside Mycroft's home, his hand isn't shaking at all.

He writes the address down in his little notebook (a new one, the old one is in the box under his bed with copies of his blog entries and Sherlock's ridiculous hat) and wishes it wasn't raining quite so hard. Mycroft is hidden beneath his umbrella and John has the sudden thought that if he could just see the man's face he would _know_ , which is just baseless supposition because after all; Mycroft Holmes was always the better actor, even at the end when Sherlock tried so hard.

The car leaves as soon as Mycroft reaches the door to the townhouse and John moves to turn away as well, thoughts churning and plans running but the door opens without Mycroft raising a hand and John stills.

It's a man, dark hair in jeans and a t-shirt and John's memory flicks to the gold band that had felt so cool against his fingers in the first warehouse, when the man reaches out a hand and grabs at Mycroft's wrist. John expects to witness 'a moment' between the two and the tips of his ears pink but the man jerks at Mycroft until the umbrella is shaken closed and he lets himself be tugged into the house.

John watches the closed door long enough for his clothes and hair to drip and create puddles around his feet, before he turns and walks away. No one follows him.

Military, he thinks later, rubbing a towel through his hair and standing over the plans on the kitchen table. Military and demanding. Something itches uncomfortably at the back of his mind. He sits on one of the chairs and tilts his head, scrubbing at his ear to clear out the last of the water. 

John knows when he's being watched, has since the knowing became the only thing that kept him alive some days. A man like Mycroft, he should _know_ , always has before and John doesn't know what it is that Mycroft usually does to let John know that he's been noticed, but he knows that it was missing tonight and that’s…that's a bit not good.

His watch says it's eleven-thirty and John makes himself some toast and heads for bed. Staring at the dark ceiling he thinks of Sherlock and wonders what he would say if he were here and then laughs out loud at himself because Sherlock wouldn't say anything that might be heard as concern for his brother, but John does know what Sherlock would _do_. 

++

Mycroft's office is just as quiet as he remembers it. 'Anthea' greets him at the door and if he could be certain in his observations of her, John might think she looks relieved to see him.

She leaves him with a cup of tea and a promise that Mr Holmes won't be long. John settles into the chair like a soldier, back straight and eyes intent. He left his suit at home this time; he isn't here for business and anyway, it still has the stain from the last time he wore it, when Sherlock grabbed at the left cuff in excitement, the grime from his experiment passing off his glove onto the brown fabric. (Sherlock had leaped backwards at John's groan and John had taken one look at the wild hair, eyes big and bright behind his safety goggles and those loose blue gloves and shrugged, fighting a smile. He didn’t like the thing anyway.)

John has barely finished his tea when the office door opens and he turns in his seat. 

Anthea didn't announce him, he realises as Mycroft pauses at the door, something that actually looks like surprise sliding over his face before he blanks it out again and closes the door behind him.

"Doctor Watson." He says, voice steady and calm and John realises that this is the first time he has heard it since the funeral when it cracked, just once, on Sherlock's name.

The guilt pricks up again because Mycroft is thinner, much thinner and John never thought he had that much padding to lose in the first place, no matter what Sherlock said. 

John lost his flatmate, his best friend that day at Barts, but Mycroft…Mycroft lost a brother that he 'worried about, constantly' and John knows that Mycroft's own influence in the ending won't have helped. Knows that if it had been Harry, after that time he forced her into rehab, that the pain would have been crushing.

He wants to reach out, lay a hand over those pale fingers resting against the wooden desk, the way he would have for Sherlock when John knew the other man needed the connection even if he hadn't realised it himself yet.

But Mycroft sits still and aloof and Mycroft isn't Sherlock so John's hand twitches in his lap and he offers a smile instead.

"Mycroft." He nods, and expects the other man to pick up on the invitation in the informality.

A proper look of surprise settles on Mycroft's face longer than the brief flash of before, because he wants it to be seen, John thinks, and oh he's good, very good. Not that John expects anything less from this man.

"John." Mycroft says, and almost manages to make John's first name sound as formal as his title. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

For once John realises that the question is genuine, Mycroft really doesn't know what has brought him here, half way across London. Before, he would have taken joy in that; keeping something from Mycroft, and Sherlock would have laughed, eyes gleaming and never let his brother live it down. But John hasn't been especially covert this time and no doubt one of the files on Mycroft's desk lists his movements from last night. But Mycroft doesn't know.

"You-" John stops, his voice stuck in his throat and suddenly it hits him that he's in Mycroft's office, that he followed the man home last night and caught sight of a man who is probably Mycroft's partner… _husband_? And what…he's worried because Mycroft isn't following _him_ anymore? That the man who really doesn't hold a minor position but _is_ the Government, hasn't been watching his life like the least exciting soap opera on TV? It's absurd and for the first time John really does feel like an idiot, getting involved in things that are none of his concern when what he really should be doing is looking for a new job and maybe a new place to live.

"Sorry." He says to Mycroft, eyes on his shoulder instead of his face. "I-" He pauses and moves to stand, limbs stiff and back still straight. "I shouldn't be here."

He stands and Mycroft fidgets in his seat and John goes to leave and…stops. Because Mycroft never fidgets. John's eyes flick up to meet the other man's and Mycroft is sitting still as a statute, but John knows what he saw and seamlessly Captain Watson folds beneath Doctor Watson and John sits back down.

He runs his eyes over the other man, taking in the suit jacket that fits him just as well as any other that John has seen, which means the weight loss isn't especially new and has been planned for, worked into his shopping habits. He looks at Mycroft's face, and the tell-tale signs of exhaustion that aren't usually there, even though Mycroft has always kept long hours. He studies the tenseness of Mycroft's frame, the way his hands have tightened to almost gripping the top of the desk, the slight tilt, ever so slight, of his torso to his right. The body under the suit quivers, a quick jerk of muscles that if John hadn't been looking for, he wouldn't have seen. But he is, and he shoots his eyes up in time to see the flash of pain before Mycroft clamps down on it.

Ribs, John thinks still holding Mycroft's blank gaze, the right bruised at the very least, possibly one cracked. Mycroft's nostrils flare and John's top lip twitches in sympathy. Not treated then and no pain relief taken.

"John, I think-" Mycroft starts, but John shakes his head and interrupts.

"Doctor Watson." He says and gets up, walking with deliberate steps around the desk. Mycroft follows his movements, a frown on his face, but he turns the chair instead of just his body, something he has to know can only help John at the moment and an action he never would have taken if he didn't have to. He doesn't stand.

"I don't need a Doctor." Mycroft's eyes jerk away from him to the door for just a second before flying back.

"I think," John says, crouching down in front of Mycroft, his hands holding onto the arms of Mycroft's chair where they curve down to join the seat. "I think that's the first time you've ever actually lied to me."

Mycroft jerks in his chair like John's words have hit him and then flinches as the movement jars his ribs.

John's hand drops to Mycroft's leg without thought, his thumb rubbing across Mycroft's knee bone through his trousers. He raises the other hand, eyes catching the way that Mycroft follows its movement carefully, watchfully, and presses a finger against the intercom.

"Anthea" he says when the speaker buzzes, "It's um, Doctor Watson, can you bring me some thick bandages and some painkillers" he eyes Mycroft carefully, "the strongest you can get, non-drowsy." John adds. Mycroft's eyes are wide, even as he fights to hide any other reaction.

"Straight away." Anthea answers and he can hear her tapping away at her blackberry through the tinny speaker before he presses the button again and he can't hear her anymore.

"Now, Doctor Watson, I really don't think-"

"Oh, I doubt that there is any moment when you aren't actually thinking, Mycroft." John interrupts and pushes himself to his feet, his hand staying on Mycroft's leg until the last minute. "Can you?" He waves a hand to indicate Mycroft's jacket, waistcoat and shirt and receives a dark glare in response.

John glares back, because he was a Captain, and as a doctor he knows this is something that has to be done and because he lived with Sherlock for a year and because Mycroft has never ever scared him like he probably should.

Anthea knocks at the door and John pulls his eyes away from Mycroft's without a hint of surrender. He uses his body to plug the gap created when he opens the door, but Anthea never takes her eyes off of her blackberry, holding out the roll of bandages, tape and bottle of painkillers in her spare hand.

He takes them, thanks her and closes the door and when he turns back to Mycroft the other man has managed to unbutton his waistcoat and jacket and start on his shirt.

John doesn't hurry around the desk, though he is used to the urgent pressure to fix something as soon as possible, he knows enough of this man to know that hurrying won't bring him any closer to what he needs to do now. In the third drawer down he finds the bottle of cognac and one crystal-cut glass and tapping out two of the pills, he pours out a glass full and passes them to Mycroft, smirking at the man's raised eyebrow.

 _Trust me, I'm a Doctor_ , he thinks, but doesn't say and then waits for Mycroft to swallow down the pills and finish the glass before taking it back and letting the man continue working on his shirt.

John is crouched again in front of Mycroft's chair when the other man's hands start to shake. John isn't surprised, in fact he has spent the last few seconds admiring the length of steel in Mycroft's spine as the man reached up higher and higher on his chest to unhook the buttons from their holes, never showing the pain it must be bringing. But as soon as John sees the first shake, he lays his hands over Mycroft's to stop their movement.

He says nothing as Mycroft's hands fall away, and with all the professionalism of his title, he releases the last few buttons, loosening and removing the tie when it starts to impede him.

Mycroft's shirt falls open loosely and John sits back on his heels, tearing his eyes away from the edge of blue and purple already visible on the small patch of skin revealed.

Mycroft's eyes are closed, but he opens them as soon as John's hand touches his knee again. John wants to smile at him, something reassuring and unthreatening but it doesn't feel right, so he drops his eyes deliberately, and leans up, grasping at the edges of Mycroft's shirt and pulling gently, tugging just enough of the material out of Mycroft's waistband to allow him to push it open on Mycroft's right and have it stay there.

The bruising is horrid. John has seen far worse, of course, but seeing the rainbow of colours on Mycroft's otherwise snow white skin seems profane.

There is nothing sexual in the way he nudges Mycroft's legs apart, easing his small frame into the gap created. Mycroft's hands grip the tops of his chair's arms, his nails scraping over the soft leather with a quiet scratch. John takes his time, kneeling up so that he is in line with the damaged ribs. 

Both of his hands are steady as he gently lays them on Mycroft's skin. He's not sure if Mycroft will think that good or not. There is an angry heat rising from Mycroft's skin the closer his fingers get to the bruising and John thanks his more recent work in Sarah's surgery for the slow way that he moves in closer and closer, assessing the damage beneath the skin as he does. (Mine-blown craters and barely standing tents under fire taught his medical hands to find a wound fast and efficiently, few thoughts to pain when even an extra second of consideration could be a second too long.)

John isn't happy to be proven right as he moves his fingers over the cracked rib, feeling along the line to make sure it isn't anything more dangerous. He is fairly sure that even Mycroft's iron will wouldn't let him walk around with a broken rib, but he has been wrong about the man before, and every doctor knows to never make assumptions about a patient.

It's recent, recent enough that John is confident that he can narrow the time frame down to just last night. The thought makes him angry, but he is careful not to let it show in his touch.

The damage covers most of the right side of Mycroft's chest and side, a dark stain that John knows hasn't even begun to reveal all of it's colours just yet. The bruising curves around Mycroft's side and John realises that his hands have pushed the shirt so far that the end has come completely from Mycroft's trousers. It still isn't enough and although John is almost sure that the rest is not any worse than he has seen so far, he can't and won't leave this incomplete. 

Mycroft has leant back in the chair as John worked his way around the injury and as John looks up for the first time, he sees the sheen of sweat on the other man's face and the swollen red indents on his lip where he has bitten it in pain. There's a constant thrumming in the body beneath his hands that John hasn't missed and he knows from painful experience that what he's going to ask next isn't going to be easy now that John has prodded Mycroft tender. 

John coughs lightly to clear his throat and Mycroft's eyes flash down at him from their stare at the far wall. He's already grimacing in distaste before John opens his mouth. "Mycroft, I need you to sit forward."

"This really isn't necessary, Doctor Watson." 

"It really rather is." John replies and slips his hand beneath the left side of Mycroft's shirt, fingers splaying out bracingly against his back. His elbow digs into the chair arm and it gives him enough leverage that when he settles a firm grip on Mycroft's right elbow he can pull the man forward without Mycroft exerting any pressure himself.

That's the easy bit, he thinks, his stomach muscles tightening as he holds Mycroft steady, sweat dripping down the other man's back and over John's fingers.

Mycroft is shaking beneath him, fine tremors that won't be helping at all. It surprises John how strong the urge is to rub his hand up and down that back, offering comfort and reassurance, but it feels too intimate a gesture and he won't risk Mycroft tensing further. 

John estimates that the painkillers have kicked in enough already that Mycroft hasn't gasped or groaned aloud at anything so far, but he feels a sense of bittersweet pride when Mycroft's body begins to lean into him. (It's so like Sherlock that John's throat closes up a little, and he thinks of his friend curling up to him on the sofa, his elbow and arm cradled in the curve of John's body to keep the pressure off of his broken collarbone. It's the last time Sherlock leaves him behind on a chase until, until.) 

It makes him rethink what he's doing. With that smallest of surrenders John can read the exhaustion and pain and he doesn't think Mycroft can hold himself up now, the way that John needs him to.

"Okay." He says, half to himself and half to the man who's head is tipped so close to his shoulder that he can feel the heat radiating off. Mycroft moves, his left hand releasing the chair arm and gripping at John's arm, just above his elbow. It's exactly what he needs him to do and John's wonder at this family's minds will probably never end no matter how long he knows them. "Okay." He says again, and peels his hand from Mycroft's back, drawing it carefully back towards himself. Mycroft's grip on his arm tightens, but he catches and releases his hold so that John's arm slips through until Mycroft's fingers are circled around John's forearm.

He nods a little, bracing himself again and slipping his left hand off of Mycroft's elbow and under his arm, careful not to touch his side. His fingers scrabble for a firm grip on the desk's edge while he stands awkwardly, pressing his right arm close to his side, letting Mycroft's full weight press against him.

With a deep breath he twists his body, keeping both arms as still as he can. Nudging with his knee, he turns Mycroft's chair so that it faces closer to the desk, trapping John's arm at an odd angle, but he knows he can hold it there and still see enough of Mycroft's back to be able to finish his examination.

Mycroft is leaning into him even more now and John grits his teeth, it's half anger, half pain and half grim determination and how like a Holmes to break him into three halves. With a grunt, John begins to lift his right arm up, slowly crossing it over the top of his left, more than a little relieved when Mycroft follows the movement with his arm, his hand never releasing its grip on John. Mycroft does let go as soon as his arm is over John's and he slumps forward, his collarbone pressed against John's forearm, and John leaning over his back, right arm now free.

Mycroft's trembling is stronger now, and John presses his fingers briefly into his hair, encouraging him to lean into John further if he needs to.

The urge to comfort him is stronger than it's ever been, but John pushes it away again, he has a job to do here. He reaches out and carefully pulls at the back of Mycroft's clothes, tugging gently until he has the three layers of material lifted away from Mycroft's side enough to see. The bruising wraps around an alarming amount, but it's the curved yellowing line, just to the side of the darkest area that turns John's body cold. (John has seen many things in his life that he'll never forget; the Afghan sky at night, the glare of silver blades as the choppers landed three days after he had secretly given up hope of rescue, Bill's face as John slumped over him, taking the bullet meant for his second, Sherlock's tears and then blood, so red in the daylight it left imprints behind John's eyes. And the curve of an umbrella handle, mapped weeks old, on white skin.)

He feels around the area carefully, checking with his fingers, but his eyes take in the other marks, the lighter ones that have almost healed.

Mycroft's back hitches with an indrawn breath and John realises his hand has strayed to the curved mark. He draws it back, but doesn't feel as ashamed as he thinks he should be to have been caught out, seeing things he shouldn't.

He straightens up, leaning across Mycroft for the roll of bandage and the tape and then settles down in a crouch on Mycroft's left. His hand rests on Mycroft's shoulder and John pushes him back a little, taking the pressure off of his left arm, until Mycroft's shoulder's are pressed into the chair again, his back at an angle, not arched, but not touching the chair.

He wraps the bandage around Mycroft's ribs, pulling as tight as he can, murmurs and hums falling from his lips because even if Mycroft isn't making a noise, John knows that this part is the bit that hurts the most. He uses the whole roll, tugging the last piece into place. (It ends at the front and John risks a glance up while he secures it with the tape; he had a patient once, who asked him for this, she said she wanted to know what it would look like if she ever had to do it for herself. He had been young then, too young to realise what she really meant.)

Mycroft's eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed and his hair limp with sweat where it has fallen against his forehead.

John stands, his knees creaking a little and any other time John would smile and crack a joke about being too old and needing an oil. (The tin man, he would have said before, who's got the can?)

"I'll get us some tea." John says, and takes the twitch of Mycroft's eyes as agreement.

He gathers up the tape and steps outside, closing the door carefully. Anthea appears instantly. "Tea." He says and she nods, tapping away at her blackberry again before reclaiming the tape and disappearing round the corner.

John counts to ten, then ten again and tries to calm the race of his heart. He wants his gun. He wants the gun he carried into the Helmand Province, the one that sat heavy in his hand and made him feel safer than he was.

And John wants Sherlock, because Sherlock would look at him, his eyes grim and flat and he would nod at John and tell him what to do.

Anthea returns, a silver tray complete with china cups and a steaming teapot and passes it to John. John looks at her, then at her phone and then back at her eyes and watches them widen before she nods. John takes the tea service and turns back to Mycroft's office.

Maybe, he thinks, opening the door and catching sight of a mostly buttoned Mycroft, maybe this time he doesn't need Sherlock to tell him what to do, maybe this time he already knows.

++

It takes three days before John can make his move (by day two John is straining at his own limits and the only thing that makes it bearable is the continued silence from Anthea, the knowledge that Mycroft hasn't gotten _worse_ ).

He has the homeless network move into the alleys near Mycroft's home (which is harder than it sounds because even though they'll do anything for John since Sherlock's death, Mycroft doesn't live in an area with many dark alleys, but even in Kensington there's always somewhere to hide and wait.). They keep an eye out for movement in the house, they get into the bins round the back and give John everything he needs to look into Mycroft's husband. John joins them, bringing enough food to share twice over and settling in next to them just before Mycroft returns home. He spends the night watching, his muscles vibrating with the effort of holding himself back. He leaves after Mycroft slips into the sleek black car and then the real work begins.

Lieutenant Sebastian Moran is not a hard man to track down, not for John who decides that now is a good time to resurrect old friendships still in active command.

He calls in a multitude of favours and tracks down men who know Moran, and trusts them more than he does the little paperwork he can find. Sherlock would wonder how Mycroft never knew, but John knows what Army life is like, he knows that there are a hundred things a man can do that will never make their way through official channels. 

And then on a late night call to Helmand he hears a name that makes everything a whole lot easier.

++

John doesn't take his gun with him. He leaves a message on Harry's phone organising a meet up tomorrow, and he gives Molly a sealed envelope with instructions to open it and pass on the information if she doesn't hear from him by tomorrow night. (She looks at him in surprise when he says that she knows who to show it to, and then looks guilty when John says Lestrade's name. He wonders who she thought he meant, but he doesn't have enough time to really think about it.)

He waits across the street until Moran arrives and then steps under a street light and waves at the nearest camera.

He thinks he has about half an hour before Mycroft arrives. He can work with that.

++

Mycroft's early. John has been ticking the time off in his head and knows that only twenty minutes have passed since Moran let him in.

Twenty minutes when it turned out John only needed ten.

The house is dark and John wonders what Mycroft expects to see, he thinks maybe fallen lamps and broken furniture, scratches and scrapes over the dining room table where one of them lashed out and missed.

"John?" Mycroft calls from the hallway, and it breaks John's heart a little that Mycroft sounds worried about a man who could have killed his husband.

He waits, silent because Mycroft needs to see for himself that John has done nothing but talk.

The lounge light flicks on and John blinks against the glare. ( _Five_ , he counts, _four, three, two_ ).

"You're not armed." Mycroft says, framed in the doorway. Ribs don't heal in three days but John runs his eyes over the other man, checking what he already knows.

"No."

"Where… _oh_." John keeps his face still. He's happy, fucking ecstatic but not in a way that pushes for a smile. "How close?" Mycroft asks, instead of denying it and John is certain that Mycroft hasn't known until know, certain like he knows Sherlock was lying at the end, like the sun always sets in the west, like Moran would have killed Mycroft slowly but surely in revenge for Moriarty's death and never told him why.

John hesitates, but Mycroft narrows his eyes. "His right hand." 

Mycroft's knees buckle and John is at his side before the man's briefcase hits the floor. He steadies him, leading him to an armchair and passing him the already poured glass of scotch.

Mycroft gulps at it, breath harsh and John is torn between standing there and moving back to the opposite chair. He compromises (in some things, but never in others) and perches on the chair arm, at Mycroft's left.

"Tell me everything." Mycroft says to the cold fire and with a quick breath, John does. He tells him the things he has seen (the tugging and the bruising, the curve of an umbrella handle and the madness lurking in another cornered soldier's eyes), the things he heard (the fights, the not-so friendly fire, the smuggled drugs and forged delivery orders, _'kept talking about his mate back home, Morty, I think, kept going on and on, no not Morty, Moriarty; that's the chap.'_ ) and finally, when he can feel Mycroft's head against his rib cage, he tells the fireplace the things he has deduced (how even distracted as he was with Sherlock and cases and Mori-fucking-arty, Mycroft could never have kept this from them before, how Sherlock would have noticed and stopped it, even if he had claimed it was all part of The Game, how Moran was a great liar, better than Moriarty, but with a shorter fuse that the consequences at Barts had lit a flame to). 

John's hand settles on Mycroft's shoulder and he adds one last truth (that Mycroft is a stronger (not braver, though John thinks he is, because he's still the same solid figure at John's side when his world has all but crumbled a second time, but bravery is equal to stupidity in this house and Mycroft could never be that) man than John has met in a long time and if Moran returns, well, he _won't_.).

A clock ticks somewhere in the house and John leans back against the wall, his head tilted up to the ceiling. 

He thinks of Sherlock now, looking down at them and barely holds in a laugh at the look he imagines on his friend's face.

In the dark everything is black and white and shades of grey, but outside the street lights are on and shining yellow and bright and car lights are red and blue. There's a dog howling three doors down and police cars screaming past the end of the road and John smiles at the ceiling and thinks _I can do this_.

++

Two years, seven months later, Sherlock walks back into 221B Baker Street, a little older and a little more tanned than his dead body on the ground and John thinks of blood and tears and umbrella bruises and punches him in the face.


End file.
